


A Fish can be in love with a Bird, but -

by actmademoiselle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean can see castiel's true form, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, idk guys I just think celestial beings are neat, repressed demon dean, you don't think you deserve to be saved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27838630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actmademoiselle/pseuds/actmademoiselle
Summary: Ever since Dean became a demon, he suppressed most of his memories and forgot his past friends, because remembering his previous humanity was too hurtful. All of that begins to unwind when Demon Dean sees Castiel for the first time, sees him in his true form. Which someone could say is a sign he isn't beyond salvation, but he won't be the one to say it, he won't even be the one to think it. POV Dean.-----------------------You look at it, and it’s the most beautiful creature you have ever seen. You can see its true face, somehow, even though you’re not sure demons are meant to see that face. You’re pretty certain it’s meant to burn you with its goodness and its purity, but instead of evoking anger in you, it calms you. It gives you an inclination of what peace might feel like, what it might be like for all those souls that are allowed into their precious Heaven, not that you’ll ever go there, not that you’ll ever go there.
Relationships: Castiel & Crowley & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	A Fish can be in love with a Bird, but -

You look at it, and it’s the most beautiful creature you have ever seen. You can see its true face, somehow, even though you’re not sure demons are meant to see that face. You’re pretty certain it’s meant to burn you with its goodness and its purity, but instead of evoking anger in you, it calms you. It gives you an inclination of what peace might feel like, what it might be like for all those souls that are allowed into their precious Heaven, not that you’ll ever go there, not that you’ll ever go there.

So in the end, anger comes and fills you whilst you look at it. It stands there, with its righteousness, like you aren’t all just pawns in the same game.

‘Dean,’ it says, with reverence, with softness. What is that, a spell? It does nothing to you. You smirk at it.

‘You lost, angel?,’ you say. Something flickers in its human eyes, like disappointment.

‘I know you’re still in there, Dean. Listen to me,’ it raises its human head, and it’s a fucking headache, seeing both of its forms at once. All those real eyes focused on you, both of the human eyes trying to reach your old soul on top of it all. So much attention, the weight of it is unbearable. The tenderness of it is unbearable. Why aren’t its eyes furious? Why aren’t you burning in the fire of heaven? You are a demon, after all.

‘My vessel’s name was Dean,’ you concede, dangle it like meat in front of a dog. Maybe that will make it angry. Make it pounce.

It does seem to affect the human eyes a little again. But, oh - its true form actually recoils. Takes a step back, as much as it can without the human body moving.

‘That’s not true. You are Dean. This curse, it doesn’t - ‘

‘Curse?,’ you interrupt it, because there is this softness again, a promise of better things to come, but you are hell’s soldier, there are no better things an angel can give you.

‘It’s not a curse,’ you laugh in its face. ‘It’s a permission.’

You look straight into its human eyes, force yourself to focus on its vessel, because as much as seeing its true form doesn’t kill you, it might just drive you mad. Good. Focus on the human vessel.

‘I can do whatever I’ve always wanted to do, with no constrictions on me. Not moral dilemmas that plague humans, nor lacking strength -’ you pick up an iron bar that’s laying on the ground, because there’s always some trash like this in back alleys like this one.

It listens to you patiently. You’d rather it had its knife out already.

You laugh.

‘- nor gravity,’ you add, remembering yesterday’s orgy. You wonder if it can read your mind, with all those eyes on you.

‘Dean,’ it insists, again, like it’s a spell, like it’s a prayer. You’re a demon. Your name has power only when its attached to a summoning ritual. You raise the bar to remind it you have one, and step closer. The bar will probably not hurt it at all, but it will be very satisfying to beat this vessel that has that much tenderness in its eyes. It’s weak, this vessel. It’s weak, this angel.

‘What do we have here,’ you hear from behind you, and you stop. It’s Crowley.

‘Castiel, I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you. Dean and I have an appointment to get to and simply no time for a chit chat.’ Now half its eyes turn to Crowley, and in those eyes the fury grows. That’s what Dean had expected from an angel. The fact he wasn’t entirely wrong calms him. This he can understand.

He looks at Crowley, but Crowley is only looking at the angel’s human form. He seems unaware of all that power behind it, all those eyes and faces that are focusing on him. He isn’t tense.

Castiel only stares at Crowley in response.

‘He’s right,’ you say to break this stand off, because something about it makes you uncomfortable, makes you squirm, like the possibility of an escalation and the thought of actually having to harm this angel in Crowley’s defense is not sitting right with you. ‘I’m driving,’ you say directly to Crowley and walk off. You have to walk past the angel at this, and you can feel, you can _feel_ all those faces turning, but you won’t let yourself look. You’ve walked five steps, ten steps, fifteen, and Crowley is finally moving as well, but you can feel the weight of all those eyes solely on you again. You turn around.

‘And you -,’ you say to it, looking at its human face which wears a textbook expression of confusion, ‘- don’t look for me again.’ You’re not sure what you mean, that’s not what you meant to say, you meant to say _don’t get in my way_ , you meant to say n _ext time I will just let my angel killing blade do the talking_ , but you said this. It doesn’t make sense. This angel was here by accident. He was probably looking for Crowley. But you said it, and it seems to mean something to the angel, and Crowley chuckles behind you.

‘We can always stay a moment and let you two fight it out,’ Crowley offers to him, like a treat, and that makes something coil in the pit of your stomach, but instead of showing it you let a smirk grace your face.

‘No, it wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable as what we have planned,’ you say, putting as much innuendo into it as possible, as much _promise_ as you can, even though it’s not true. You have some of Crowley’s bureaucratic appointments planned. Crowley chuckles again, for some reason deeply satisfied with your answer.

You can’t stop looking at the angel, mostly because that would mean turning your back to it, and turning your back to a powerful creature you just teased is not a good idea. Partly, however, it’s because all that goodness, all that promise, all that surety it radiates are a bit addictive. You don’t want to stop looking at it. You don’t want to stop feeling it. It’s a torture, you know it, because you will have to look away at some point, and your own lack of all of the above will be even more acute. Even in a smaller part though, it’s nostalgia, this feeling you recently discovered, similar to how you feel when you get into your car or hear someone’s name is Sam. You don’t know why, but you feel it then, and you feel it now.

In an even smaller part - the smallest part, you tell yourself - it’s because it’s beautiful. You want to open your mouth in owe and fall to your knees, but this is an angel and it’s your mortal enemy, isn’t it? This is another form of torture it subjects you to.

‘Dean-o?,’ Crowley calls from behind you. You gather yourself and send it your best smirk as goodbye, in a doomed-to-fail attempt to torture it in the same way it tortures you. Before you turn, you look right into the eyes of its other faces, scattered like a halo over his vessel’s head. You hear it take a breath in. You smirk throughout it all, to emphasize your message. Show it just how little you care. For the cherry on top, you glance back onto its vessel’s face before turning back and joining Crowley.

That is your mistake. You are now with Crowley, but the look on its face is burned into your mind. You are now driving, but the sheer amount of hope and shock in its eyes is haunting you.

Why did it have to look at you like this? Why has it been haunting you in your dreams? ~~Not dreams.~~ You do not dream, you are a demon. But there are things that start to play out against your eyelids when you close your eyes for a longer time.


End file.
